Gears of War: Seran Remnants
by ROBOTURBOT5000
Summary: A collection of brief works focused on what is left after the war, for both humans... and others. Semi-canonical, some shorts may contain established characters and settings.
1. Chapter One Uprising Below

**-| Introduction |-**

**Hello! Thanks for taking the time to read my work. This is not going to be one continuous storyline so much as it is a series of snapshots connected together in a common setting. None of the 'canonical' events in Gears 1, 2, or 3 will be altered, but a lot of suppositions will be made based on things hinted at in the game, and my own visions. Anyone who wishes to create their own works within this 'world' and link them to here is more than welcome. **

**Usual disclaimer: Gears of War and all it contains belong to Epic Games. I make no money from the distribution of this material. No copyright infringement intended.**

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><p>"Treasonoussssss."<p>

"If that is what you must call it, father." She stepped around the palace guard, swaggering, long tassels on her dress accenting her hip movements. Some might think that her bravado was due to the twenty-odd brutes behind her, weapons at the ready, but he knew better. She was always like this.

Myrrah. His beloved daughter. His greatest disappointment.

"You should know by now," she continued, "what it is I want, and how far I will go to claim it. I hope that extreme measures will not be necessary, however." Myrrah spoke in the strange alien tongue purposefully, to make him look illiterate and inelegant. It was purpose-made for her but his massive canines and heavy tongue could barely form the words. "Strange as it may seem, I respect you greatly."

"_Ch'bash_!" The behemoth female seated at his right stood, long robs a mirror image of the dainty hooded dress Myrrah wore. She pointed one rockworm-thick arm at the little figure standing with arms folded in front of the dais. "_Menoch serl karach ni'margh_ meat _ssiiilya_!"

"Tell your _pet_to address me in a more fitting manner if she wants a response," Myrrah snarled back. There was a sparking noise as the theron caste behind her raised their mag-bows and switched on the power nervously. The female was nearly twice their size with bulletproof hide, but Myrrah stood her ground defiantly.

Narthanc rose slowly from his throne, shrugging off the immense cape around his shoulders. Two thirds his mate's size, his bare chest and arms rippled with scaled muscle, the dark grey dots clustering around his head, neck and shoulders and sprouting into knobby bumps at the apex of his skull. He surveyed the assembled guards, firey eyes blazing from beneath heavy brow-plates. Six was not nearly enough to defeat him, his mate and the High Priest on his left, although the priest was positively dainty compared to them. Myrrah was no fool, though; he'd raised her better, and she had doubtlessly stationed legions more collaborators in the second-floor gallery that ringed the throne room, and they only needed to kill him to accomplish her goal. If he fought, he died. If he ran, he died. If he stood, he lived- for now, at least, but the chance was there.

"Your path foolish," he hissed. "Bring war to Hollows."

"War is already in the Hollows, father," Myrrah retorted. "Perhaps you do not see it from the comfort of the throne, but it is here."

"Children will die! Many deathssss!"

"They die already, father. Everywhere, the lambent hunt us. Savage animals, they listen to neither reason nor plea nor demand. Soon enough they will be here, in Nexus, and you… you are planning an alliance with the very scum that created them!" She spread her arms wide and looked up at the ceiling, drawing a round of grumbling from all corners of the room.

"Groundcrawlers strong. Groundcrawlers wise. Find cure."

Myrrah threw here head back and laughed theatrically. "Are you so bold, to say here in front of all assembled that _your own children_are not strong enough? Not wise enough? Father, where is your pride?" The mocking tone cut deeply, coming from one as close to his heart as her.

"Ffffenix…"

"Adam Fenix? He has accomplished nothing yet. Do you even know what he has done? Have you seen the inventions he has devised for use on his own kind? You are truly naïve if you think he will not turn his machinations against us in time. The groundcrawlers know only a selfish world, a world forever divided. Everything they touch is destroyed eventually. It is time for us to end their legacy of fire."

"You groundcrawler!" His temper flared, and a hush settled over the room at the slur he'd just leveled against his own daughter. His children loved her as much as they loved him.

She only smirked in response. "I was, before you took me. Before I was reborn in the Hollow. Thanks to you I am stronger than what I would have been, better than them. Strong and wise enough to see how ill-advised your plans are, if they will ever come to fruition."

Grimacing, Narthanc pointed at her. "Patience, daughter! Fenix prove trussst. You vital…. Duty to sssiblingss…" He struggled to form his ideas in the groundcrawler tongue.

Myrrah came forward, advancing slowly step-by-step up the royal dais. The female and High Priest advanced towards her but a wave from Narthanc caused them to fall back. The small figure came chest to chest with the hulking leader, staring into his eyes defiantly. He raised his massive taloned hands to embrace her shoulders, but she pushed past him haughtily. He turned to follow her as she stood directly in front of the throne, uncaring about the perfect shot he presented to the party of theron.

"Yes," she began, voice somber. "I am vital, but not in the trifling role you have raised me for." She reached into her dress and drew forth a wickedly curved knife, as long as her forearm. She grabbed his hand, pressing the hilt into his palm and curling his fingers one by won around the blade, then lifted it up to her throat. He offered little resistance as she gripped his hand tightly, her own barely large enough to go around his palm, and pushed the blade into her skin.

"Why do you govern, father? By what right do you lead the _narthanc_, supreme and unquestioned?"

"Sstrength," he replied, lowering his voice. "Weak grow. Ssstrong work. Ssstrongesst of all rule."

"Then prove that you are stronger than I." Her hand pushed harder against his. "Prove that you are fit to command."

As he stared into her eyes, he saw a flicker of something- anguish, perhaps? Fear? Her eyes were the only break in the mask of serenity that was her face. A flick of the wrist, and he would be supreme once again, but he had been pondering his options since she first threw open his chamber doors, and now he was convinced that there was no victory here, at any cost. His hand hesitated only a second before he ripped the knife away from her throat, dropping it on the floor. High Priest and mate both stared dumbly at the blade as though they expected it to leap into his treacherous daughter's throat by its own will.

The silence in the throne room of Nexus was absolute.

Myrrah seemed almost disappointed as she slowly sank onto the throne, arms sliding onto the massive obsidian armrests. She looked him over, tilting her head as though unsure what to make of him. "You are unfit to command. In your place, I shall rule Nexus and all of the Hollows." She leaned back tentatively until the cold stone of the immense chair supported her fully.

"Will never bow."

"I don't expect you to, father."

"Kantus loyal. Females loyal. Will never obey you." Narthanc straightened his shoulders and puffed out his chest in defiance.

"Kantus loyal." The High Priest murmured his support.

Myrrah waved her hands at both without taking her eyes off the hulking figure directly in front of her. "The kantus are loyal to the next in succession, Sitrik," she sneered. "Your protégé Skorge is already on my side. As for the females, they will learn. For their own sake, I hope they learn quickly."

Narthanc looked over his shoulder at the rising sound of footfalls to see legions of theron marching in. They appeared on every balcony and in every doorway, leaving a wide aisle down the middle of the throne room to the main doorway. The priest and female edged in closer to him, concerned about the mass of high-powered weaponry now neatly arrayed in rows over almost every square inch.

"Sssserve the Queeen!" they hissed in perfect symphony.

Standing again, Myrrah raised her hands in greeting to the masses. The smug smile had crept back onto her face by now as she leered at the three immense figures before her. She was royalty now, with full command over untold legions, and it showed. From the anteroom behind the throne, two figures emerged. Shadows slipped away from the bulkier figure to reveal an especially large theron in black robes with head bare. The smaller figure was a kantus priest, wearing the older skullcap instead of the priestly mitre. Wordlessly, each took their positions at Myrrahs side. The female snarled at the black-clad form in front of her seat. Guttural murmering rose to a chorus of cheers as the all three seated themselves in unison.

"Sssserve the Queeeen! Sssserve the Queeen!"

"My allies, today you witness the beginning of a new era. By the ancient rite, I rise as Overlord of Nexus and Queen of all the Hollows. My word alone is law." Narthanc growled in displeasure at the rising tone and fervor in her voice. "Sitrik, you are excommunicated from the kantus forever. In your place rises Skorge, the new voice of the Worm."

The chorus increased in intensity.

"Brood Matron, you and your ilk shall have no further influence over the breeding females or the throne. In your place rises Ra'am, general of the armies of Nexus and my chief counsel from now to eternity." Sitrik was whispering frantically into the matron's ear as he tried to hold her back by the arm to prevent a bloodbath. Myrrah turned to the disposed king, canine teeth peeking from her feral smile.

"Dearest father, we are no longer the _narthanc_, your brood, and you have no further authority in these lands. You and your court are forever exiled from the Hollow, never to return under pain of death." Myrrah and the others sat down, as the endless chant reached its highest level. As if by some unseen command, the theron behind the throne began to drive forwards, mag-bows whining as they cranked up to full power. A gleaming wall of darkest crimson armor and gnashing teeth began to push against the dethroned king, forcing him back as he snarled and shoved at them.

"Misstaken! Lead the _narthanc_to death, foolish groundwalker!" The ex king held onto his mate's arm as the three backed down the steps, neverending waves of his former children filling the gap between him and Myrrah. Satisfied, she sat down slowly, digging her nails into the blackened rock. He caught one last glance of his adopted daughter before the mass of armor and flesh forced him down the stairs, but her final words would ring in his head forever.

"The _narthanc_, your children, your _slaves_, are no more, father. We have our own name now. From this day forward, we are the Locust." 

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><p><strong>There's a lot of murmuring going on as to what, exactly, Queen Myrrah IS, and how she is in charge of the Locust. I favour the explanation that she is nearly pure human, and that she is not the creator of them, nor their first leader... <strong>


	2. Chapter 2  Revelations Ignored

_MEMO DATE: 13 AE_  
><em>SENDER: PROFESSOR DAVIS FEYNBAHN ID 3466<em>  
><em>RECIPIENT: [REDACTED]<em>

_SUBJECT: TANGEMERE SPECIMEN PAPER EDITS REQUEST_

_Sirs,_

_After reading the final draft on the Tangemere specimen (received last week) there are several issues with the way my findings were presented that I take issue with. These alterations considerably change the tone of the final report and downplay several conclusions which must be brought to the attention of the [REDACTED] and general staff._

_-Use of the phrase 'drone strain' in Section 32-4 is inaccurate as the descriptor 'strain' is used when referring to the two known Locust genetic subgroups, alpha and beta, not to phenotype (the term 'drone' refers to a phenotype of alpha-strain Locust)._

_-Section 33-1 states that I reached the conclusion that the specimen was of the drone phenotype due to a NEAR percent match in genetic sequence. At no time in my paper did I make such a conclusion. In Analysis 2, fourth paragraph I stated that the DNA test was incomplete but that of the portion completed, there was a ninety-percent commonality with the alpha-strain and an eighty-two percent commonality with the beta strain. This is a key error which changes the entire tone of the report. I state in the Conclusions section of my personal notes that the Tangemere specimen is highly unlikely to be alpha-strain Locust of any type._

_-Doctor Ca[REDACTED]'s comments about dwarfism are not supported by any analysis of the specimen I am aware of. The initial impression of the coroner at [REDACTED] Station, that the specimen was of the grenadier phenotype, is based mostly on the texture and coloration of the skin. In reviewing Dr. [REDACTED]'s notes and photographs I would suggest that the specimen's height and mass differences from the drone phenotype cannot be explained satisfactorily though the dwarf grenadier hypothesis._

_I appreciate that the suggestion of a hitherto-unknown strain of Locust is not supported by any other evidence besides the Tangemere corpse. However, for the good of humanity and our struggles, I believe this possibility should be exhaustively investigated. As my own requests for the complete background of the recovery of this specimen have been denied due to lack of clearance, I would request that the entire report, with my notes, be submitted to Professor [REDACTED], as his qualifications in the field of genetics are beyond reproach._

_IMMEDIATE ACTION TAKEN: [None]_

_NOTE 1: FOLLOWING PROFESSOR FEYNBAHN'S DEATH ON 2nd BRUME 13 AE ALL PERSONAL FILES PERTAINING TO PROJECT SEARCHLIGHT DE-RATED FROM ABOVE TOP SECRET TO RESTRICTED ACCESS_

_NOTE 2: AFTER REVIEW BY THE [REDACTED] TEAM AT THE BUREAU OF MEDICINE, NO ALTERATIONS WERE MADE TO FINAL REPORT. NO REASON FOUND TO INVOLVE PROFESSOR [REDACTED] IN SEARCHLIGHT._

Baird leaned back in his chair and rubbed his eyes, mindful not to let the broken latch send him toppling over. He swore that his brain was uttering the same creaks and groans of protest as the chair's frame. Why everyone waited forever to get one of these apartments instead of living in the tent camps or refurbs was beyond him; at least you didn't have to fill a tent with rotting pre-war furniture.

"Daaamon, what are you dooooing?"

A pair of mocha-brown hands slid down over his shoulders to his chest. He felt Sam's breath, hot and wet on the neckline of his T-shirt. Baird sighed grumpily as the woman pressed her cheek up against his. "Digging humanity out of the shit piling up from all quarters. Advancing human knowledge for the betterment of all. You know, important stuff that's too advanced for you."

"Ohh, is Bairdy-bird all gwumpy because I'm rubbing my soft, soft skin against his ugly face?" Baird could practically hear her smile through the gentle mocking in her voice. "You spend enough time on these old files as it is, when do I get my piece of you?"

"You know," Baird intoned seriously, "I should trade you for a puppy. The only difference between you and a puppy is that I can put the dog in a cage when it starts to annoy me."

"That's not fair," Sam chuckled. "I haven't pooped on the rug in almost a week. What are you looking at anyways, Damon?" She leaned in over his shoulder to read the text on the taped-up monitor unit. Sensing that he would soon have to start explaining an entire days worth of decoding, Baird conceded defeat and started picking up his notebooks and electronic organizer off the desk and dropping them into the drawers, careful not to nudge Sam off-balance.

"I honestly have no idea at this point. The files I have unlocked are all over the place. This document is something about a place called Tangemere, in case that rings a bell."

The brunette screwed up her face in thought. "You mean the Tangemere River?"

"You know about it?" Baird lifted her arms from around his neck as he swiveled the chair around to face her.

"River valley in the northern… you know…. Agh, the area by the coastal mountains, near Scyllia. I just remember the tourist brochures. Lots of quaint farms and ski lodges up the slopes. Wine tasting, pick-your-own-fruit, that sort of frilly stuff." She looked into Baird's eyes and smirked. "You know, civilized stuff that's too advanced for you.'

"Funny," Baird retorted as she sat down on his lap, holding his shoulders. "And they say I'm an ass."

"You are one, I have one," Sam beamed as she leaned in and kissed him on the lips "Been in the mood to share it lately, but I suppose the professor is too tired by now…"

"Oh, I dunno." Baird pulled her back in for a second kiss, this one deeper, steamier. "I think I'm good for another few hours of 'research'" He smirked, not at his own lame joke but at Sam's eye rolling.

"Maybe I have some mountains and valleys of my own for you to explore, Daaaamon," she taunted,

"I don't have satellite access to these regions. Hmm, maybe you could let my recon teams in for a little hands-on surveying?" His fingers fluttered up and down the sides of her bare midriff. Sam, grinning ear to ear, reached down and grabbed the zipper of her sports top and started to pull it open.

"Why professor, I thought you'd never ask."

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><p><strong>A detailed map of Sera would be really nice. Probably take some of the fun out of thinking up geography and place names, though. <strong>

**PS, Sam and Baird seem adorable now but just wait till those fuckers are tag-teaming you in Team Deathmatch. :U **


	3. Chapter 3  Mountain Encounter

**Author's Note: Not as happy with such a large 'reveal' so far in, even though this isn't a continuous story. Remember, unless otherwise specified, this is all set several years after the conclusion of the war.**

The flatlands of Sera generally obeyed the rise and fall of the seasons, from rainy thaws to blistering equinoxes to windblown freezes, but in the mountain passes of the west the weather decided its own course. The natural order of things was usually harsh and cool; coastal breezes funneled into the narrow valleys, exchanging warmth for velocity and ripping entire sheets of snow off the peaks, turning a sunny afternoon into a whiteout in minutes. Weather satellites could track the progress of air masses and predict the weather had they not conked out halfway through the Locust War, and so it was that the hunter found himself trudging along in a growing swirl of snowflakes and chill.

To be fair, he had planned his trip well enough. He'd hunted in the mountains all his life, since before the Locust had come, and knew better than to leave his cabin in a rainstorm. He'd left as the ground dried out and followed the retreating storm deep into the Vadar Gorge, only to remember too late that the warm moist air rising up the mountain faces would soon cool and fall back down like a hammer. He pulled his scarf further up and tried to negotiate the steep hillside without sending too many rocks downslope or clattering the canteens on his backpack too much. A single-shot rifle from some unnamed post-war workshop was slung over his shoulder, empty grouse stringer hanging from the buttstock. Any hope he had of filling it was gone with the worsening weather; rock grouse tended to fly down into the treeline and hide out during snowstorms. The man stopped to look up at the peak looming behind him and the curling waves of snow starting to drift off in the wind and sighed into his scarf. He began to ease down the slope carefully, convinced there would be no chance for game before the storm hit and visibility dropped to zero. He was so busy watching his feet on the gravel and tundra grass that he almost missed the line of shaggy quadrupeds easing around the narrows of the pass ahead.

Ironhorn aurochs! The hunter dropped to one knee and froze, spotty bleached peacoat fanning out around him on the ground. The nearsighted beasts were perhaps four hundred feet away and a hundred feet further down than he was; lucky for him, they were high-mountain dwellers who rarely thought to look above them. Twelve individuals made up the group, flat faces and stubby horns pointing westward as they meandered down towards the valley floor a half-mile distant. The man settled onto both knees and brought his rifle across his lap as he observed the aurochs nosing around in the dried grasses, looking for roots. Their four-foot long bareskinned tails waved back and forth to preserve their balance on the tricky terrain. Rubbing his chin pensively, the hunter considered his options.

The smallest of the aurochs was still well above waist high and easily two or three hundred pounds. He had absolutely nothing to carry or drag that kind of weight down into the valley and around through the opposite pass to his camp, which meant he would have to butcher the animal on the spot and take it over in pieces. There was enough cheesecloth wrapping in his bag to accomplish this, but he didn't relish the idea of stumbling across a per-guien or a wildcat with his arms occupied by a corpse. But really, the man thought, how unlucky would I have to be for that to happen? More of a problem was not being able to finish the job before the storm set in and losing half the meat to scavengers or his own bad memory. He could definitely field dress it and quarter it in the remaining time… perhaps if he dug a cache and covered the meat with heavy rocks? There didn't seem to be a shortage of those in the area.

The hunter reached into his coat and brought out a cartridge: semi-deforming .300 ball, just like the old Lancer rifles used to fire. He looked from the herd to the bullet and back again. If it was good enough to kill big grubs, it should work on a herbivore, right? Assuming he could hit it in the vitals. Each passing minute brought the herd closer and closer to him, presenting their lungs for a double-penetrating shot trajectory that should knock them out instantly. The darkness of the snowfall was more menacing now, threatening to steal his vision with every second that he dithered.

"One shot," the man whispered to himself, "and I probably won't even get one of the bastards."

Slowly, he eased himself down onto his elbows, sticking the cartridge in his mouth. Bitter brassy flavour spread over his tongue as he flipped the rifle's ladder sight up and moved the adjustment slider to one hundred yards. A scope, even a simple diopter one would be worth the world right about now. He opened the sliding breech block and fished the cartridge out of his mouth, then rammed it home into the chamber and pushed the side-lever to close the action. As he brought the buttstock up to his shoulder and glanced down the iron sights, he offered a small prayer: "Allfathers, if I fuck this up please just let the animal go. Please don't let it suffer." He pondered his words for a moment and added, "Pardon my mouth while you're at it."

Looking down the rifle barrel, the herd dwindled to a single animal, midsized, probably a female. At ninety yards the auroch was no bigger than the tip of his thumb, and he could feel his cold-sapped hands start to betray him as he kept the gun trained on its chest. When the animal paused and lowered its head, he lined up both sights with the hollow behind its forelimb and slowly squeezed the trigger. The shot rolled out across the landscape, echoing off the walls of stone and ice and gravel. Ignoring the painful ringing in his ears the hunter lifted his head up to peer through the faint smoke and snow at the herd downslope.

Every single animal was in flight.

"Aw damnit!" he hissed, struggling onto his feet again. The man wrenched the side lever open again, sending the spent shell flying as he grabbed for another. Gravel and rocks skittered ahead of him as he hurried as quickly as he could manage towards the solitary figure falling behind the rest of the herd. Sky and mountains and howling wind all vanished into a shaky muted mess; all that existed boiled down to himself and the animal, now slowing to a limping crawl. After a dozen further steps it collapsed onto its stomach. Just as the man slowed his pursuit, one foot hit a patch of loose soil and sent him skidding out of control. He could only save himself by throwing his body sideways into a nearby cluster of big boulders; they stopped his death-fall, albeit painfully. He flopped down onto his back, winded and wincing against the ache in his ribs.

Lying still for a few moments let the ringing dissipate and the hunter was finally aware of the wind picking up and the darkening sky. He'd have to move now if he wanted to t least dress the corpse before things got too ugly. After that… well, he supposed he could take the hindquarters and a couple of the edible organs in bags and somehow bury the rest. Maybe he could quarter it, if the weather held for a little longer. Every scenario running through his mind started to make the hunter more and more annoyed at his haste. Grumbling, he lurched onto his unsteady feet, feeling a spike of pain go through his ribcage. He hopped over the boulders and froze again, hearing the faint crunch of gravel beneath feet.

In a few seconds the crunching materialized into an immense shaggy figure coming out through the pass on the far side. The man actually rubbed his eyes to make sure that he wasn't seeing things. It was a mass of dark brown fur, darker than the auroch's hide, shuffling along purposefully towards the corpse.

And it was walking on its _hind legs_.

He squinted as hard as he could through the increasingly snow-filled air. The word 'bear' ran continuously through his mind even as he reminded himself that bears never took more than a few steps like this. It had no pointed ears, no long bear snout, and the way it swung its arms – _arms_!

_Yerba monta_.

The last time he'd ever taken the mountain men legends seriously, he still had training wheels on his bike. They were just prospector's stories, tall tales, the musing of drunk campers. Nobody in modern Feria believed in giant man-eating apes traipsing about in the mountains. He crouched behind the rocks, watching the huge beast as closely as he dared. It was obviously cagey but the promise of a free lunch was too much for it. Carefully, head swiveling from side to side, it stepped over a log as big around as an oil drum as though it were nothing. When it reached the dead auroch, it inspected it briefly, then grabbed the animal and slung it over one shoulder. The auroch looked like a big dog compared to this monster. The man estimated it must be at least seven or eight feet tall and built like a brick shithouse. It looked up at the peaks ahead of it and the cyclones of snow and ice blowing off them, and started to head across the valley floor towards the opposite side.

He wanted to shoot it. Auroch be damned, he wanted something in his hands to prove he wasn't going crazy. The wind was roaring down now, turning the sky grey and making the receding figure a more difficult shot with each passing second. Being the first to prove the legendary apes existed… how much meat would that buy a man? _As much as you wasted today_, he grumbled in his own mind. _Go ahead, idiot. Shoot it. Give yourself another eight hundred pounds of animal to deal with. Maybe you can cut off its head and drag that into town like some sort of barbarian. _Sighing, he lowered the rifle in his hands and stared hard at the mystery before him, vanishing step by step into the huge boulders and snowy haze of the far hills. He turned and started back up over the hill to where his campsite was, left only with disappointment.

"I'm going to look like a damned fool when I tell 'em about this."

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><p>Like a sandblaster, the wind-driven snow whipped and curled around the figure struggling up the hill. Its fur was encrusted with the stuff, and it stung the beast's eyes and made them weep. Ducking down into a large crevasse brought shelter from the storm and calm, cold air; breathing left great clouds of vapour around the thing's head . The auroch scraped against the rocks as the huge thing made its way carefully down to the lowest part of the crevasse, a pit of gravel twelve feet in diameter. One enormous rock lay against the side in a curious position, with an even gap around all edges. The huge figure set the dead animal down and leaned one massive shoulder against the rock until it slid aside. From within the hidden tunnel, warm air rushed up and out. Taking one last look around for safety, the thing picked up the animal again and rolled the rock behind it, resealing the tunnel.<p>

Inside, the tunnel was warm, lit by numerous crude lamps in metal brackets. The big figure reached up, tugging and pulling at the fur around its face until the hood slid back to reveal pebbly grey skin. It lifted the animal corpse, sniffing it fondly and rubbing one finger in the crimson trail leaking from its chest. Fresh auroch blood had such a pleasing, coppery smell. Throwing it back over one shoulder, the figure picked up an enormous cleaver laying against one wall and started down the passageway, murmuring contentedly to itself.

_"Hungerrrrrrr…"_


	4. Chapter 4  Ramifications

**Another Baird and Sam moment! Yeah, that's pretty much it.**

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><p>Sam shivered at the damp wind pushing past her coat collar. She shifted the paper bag in her arms, freeing up one to try and hold it closed as she scurried from the shuttle bus into her apartment building. The countryside had thawed out weeks ago but the northerly winds still hammered into New Jacinto often enough to annoy her. She shivered a little getting into the elevator as the last of the chill was driven off. The heating system was back online, which meant that Baird was back.<p>

She couldn't help feeling a little giddy.

Baird was back all right. He lay sprawled on the couch in grey cotton pants and a wifebeater, bowl of crisps balanced on his stomach precariously. One hand was typing away at the computer setting on the coffee table, the other was busy scratching himself. The only acknowledgement Sam got was a muffled grunt, more than what the man usually gave out. "What time did you come in?" she asked cheerily, setting the bag down on their kitchen counter and pulling out packets and cans.

" Oh, 'bout ten or fifteen minutes after you left this morning, probably," Baird replied, raising his voice to be heard. "The kettle was still warm." Sam piled the cans into the cupboard and grabbed the heavy, paper-wrapped lump in the bottom of the bag, hefting it appreciatively. She went to stand in the living-room doorway, holding the package eagerly in both hands as though it were made of gold.

"You'll never guess what I got us for dinner."

"No, I certainly won't." His eyes never left the computer screen.

"Daaamon, I got us duck! The last duck in the market!" Sam held the package out excitedly, waving it back and forth. "Freshly plucked right in front of me."

Food was Damon Baird's greatest weakness. He looked over at her with questioning eyes as soon as the word 'freshly' left her lips. Sam noticed his eyes leaving the wrapped duck meat and roaming up and down her body, his other main weakness, and a saucy smirk crossed her face.

"This isn't some prank where you say you're cooking duck, but what you really do is take the nastiest mudfish you can find and stick fake feathers in it, right?" Baird grabbed the back of the couch and pulled himself up, catching the crisps bowl before it could escape. "Because if that's what you're playing at…"

"Relax, hun. It's real. I thought we could put something nice on the table when Anya and Marcus come over."

"Aww, but that's tomorrow!" Baird whined, stuffing more crisps into his mouth and pecking away at the keyboard with his free hand. "Uhm mungruh nuhh."

"You've already had your dinner," Sam chided, returning the duck meat to the kitchen counter. She picked up the bi-weekly newsletter sitting on the counter and returned to the living room, flopping down in a ratty foam-filled armchair across from the couch. She didn't buy it because it was a valuable source of information (it was amateurish and usually outdated by the time it went to print) but for that feeling of civility and normalcy it generated. They had heat, they had light, they had a working icechest now, and she could sit down and read terrible word puzzles like a housewife, finally.

She wasn't quite sure when the idea of being 'domesticated' stopped being frightening and started being appealing, but that was another modern development she liked.

"How was work?" she asked, hoping to provoke Damon into something halfway resembling a conversation. He sighed loudly and stretched his neck out; venting about work was one of his favourite subjects.

"Terrible. Stupid. Retarded. You know they are talking about commissioning a second plant over in Marburg? I mean it's not like this one _barely_ runs right for five minutes at a time. They keep whipping out these old pre-war spec sheets and equipment lists and looking at me like I'm somehow not talking out of my ass and get me to 'okay' it." He looked over at Sam and threw his hands up in exasperation. "We're on the same tech level as the first electrical power plants ever built on Sera and they're already talking about turbo-blowers and superheaters, like we're just going to stick them onto a bolted-together garbage burner and…" Baird trailed away and sighed. "Bottom line is, I guess, we should get used to intermittent blackouts for the next while."

"Well, there's some good news in the paper at least," Sam offered. "It says here that Chairman Hammerman is going to sign papers abolishing the Fortification Act next week."

"Oh yeah, great, tons of damaged broads invading the countryside."

"Damon!"

"What?" Baird was feeling the full might of her stink-eye now. "You think those women are going to skip forth and become law-abiding citizens after being caged like animals most of their lives? It's bad enough there's a shitload of ex-cons walking around with COG badges on their shoulders. Dames just make that equation worse."

"One of those ex-cons is your friend, Damon," Sam chided.

"That's totally different. Marcus… he got a bum rap." The blonde man winced. "Marcus committed a crime of ideology. I'm talking about guys that have strangled their way through a half-dozen hookers."

"Fair point. Oooh, look at this! 'Ferian Man Encounters Legendary Mountain Ape?" Sam snorted. "Sounds like quality journalism all right."

"What the hell?"

"Apparently in Feria, there's some legend about giant ape-like beings that roam the mountains and eat people. People see them once they've drank enough of the local wine." Sam giggled into her hand. "What a load of bollocks."

"I dunno, big hairy brute, knuckles draggin' on the ground, carrying men away to their doom… sure they didn't just see you on vacation?"

"You dick!" she laughed in response, weakly throwing a cushion at him. Noticing his attention was once again fixed rigidly on the computer screen, Sam asked him what he was so busy computing.

"Just stuff."

"What kind of stuff?"

"If you must know, I'm trying to collect all the information in the COG database about the Locust." Baird hunched over defensively, still typing away.

"That's… a little useless at this point in time," Sam said quizzically. "Planning on writing a book, are we?"

"I'm practically an expert on the damn grubs. Somebody's gotta do it." Baird's face darkened. "Actually, I can think of someone who knew a lot more about them than I ever will. You ever wonder if we could've prevented it? If _he_could've…"

"All the time, hun." Sam's voice was restrained and even. "Then I remember that Adam Fenix sacrificed himself to save all of us in the end. Your best friend's father died saving the world, Baird. I remember that and I think that answering some questions just causes more pain and problems than it's worth."

"Don't act like I'm trying to take a piss on his statue, Sam."

Sam laid a reassuring hand on his shoulder. "I wasn't. I'm just asking you, as a favour to me if no-one else: tread lightly. People need a story with heroes in it at a time like this." She glanced at the clock, face lighting up. "Oh, look at the time! Do you think they'd have another load of hot water done by now?"

Baird checked his own watch. "Probably. Go run yourself a bath and if it's not hot enough, I'll come in there and warm it for you. With my farts." Sam snorted and kissed him lightly on the cheek, rising up and heading to the small bathroom. She'd been waiting all day for their allotment of hot water and a warm bath was all she wanted in the whole wide world by now. Baird watched her go, feeling a stirring in his breast at the sight of her lithe figure. He had more than he could've ever hoped for in Sam. He really shouldn't be such a dick, he reasoned, sighing. He should be so lucky as Marcus was, to have parents who could be considered heros instead of his own miserable family. Adam Fenix sacrificed his desire to be remembered as a man of peace alongside his own life. Perhaps it was time for him to let some things go. The past was immutably over. The Locust were all dead. With that last thought, Baird glanced over at the discarded newspaper with a funny feeling.

"… hairy creature which he estimated at eight feet tall…"

"…while pursuing a mountain bison he had shot…"

_Bison fur cloak._

"All of them," he said out loud, quietly, but the funny feeling still remained.

* * *

><p><strong>I get the feeling that Sera is now facing an energy crisis due to the loss of their number one fuel source. Pity they never really explain Imulsion that well, considering it's of key importance to the plot, but Gears is a game about huge jacked-up dudes slamming into huge jacked-up lizard dudes while yelling and growling so I'm going to give Epic a pass on 'serious plot development'. <strong>

**Baird probably isn't a real stationary engineer but given the situation post-war, I doubt that matters. :p **


	5. Chapter 5 Don't Tread On Me

**Moving away from Feria and Baird/Sam playing house...**

**Obviously, Delta Squad is going to be the heros in pretty much every fan fiction, but there seems to be a lot of rage against the Stranded. I don't know when they became the bad guys. Their own government nuked them, conscripted them, knocked up their women and left, in that order. If someone did that to me and then got up in my face about paying taxes or driving the speed limit again, I'd be pretty pissed. **

**This chapter contains violence and strong language, just throwin' that out there for the faint of heart.**

* * *

><p>"Ohh yeah, you'll come out real pretty darlin'"<p>

Pete jammed his shovel into the broken rubble and leaned down to check the loader's underframe. Four hours of work left most of the chassis clean and clear, but the massive tires were still six or eight inches deep in dirt. That, their partial deflation and the sheer size of the loader had kept it here, untouched by previous salvors amidst the ruined bridgework and materials. Pete rubbed his hand lovingly along the chest-high rear fender; he'd driven by her many times himself, until curiosity made him stop and walk close enough to see the big lettering on her rear: _BELTMAN L79O_. O for 'oilburner'. O for 'burns-any-goddamn-sludge-you-want'. O for all those fat zeros on the bill of sale he'd get when he cleaned her up. "You're gonna get so fuckin' fat off all them groceries, Pete-o," he muttered to himself, pinching at his gut in dismay. "Already gettin' fat enough. Gonna have to give half of 'em to Peewee." First things first, though: he'd have to get the loader to his workshop in town.

For that, he'd need his truck.

Just outside the former construction site, the big wrecker crouched on its six fat tyres, a conglomeration of brutish angles and dull weathered metal, ready for work. He'd pulled it out of a bog near Ereburg upside down and restored it to running condition himself, which explained the water-pipe exhausts and the cab welded from quarter-inch steel plate and t-beams. He checked on the pulley block shackled to the loader's rear bumper and followed the steel cable all the way back to where it disappeared into a cutout in the huge rear bumper of the truck. Both outriggers were down and locked, heavy rubber mats were over the pulling cable… nothing left to do now but start her up. Pete climbed into the cab, door sqealing in progress, opened up the air valve crudely bolted to the dash and pushed the starter button. With a hiss and a lurch, the motor turned over and caught, black smoke rolling around the cab as it came to life. He moved the gearshift from park to neutral, tapped the pedal once to help 'wind up' the turbo and moved over to the winch control box behind the cab.

"Alright girl," he grinned, "let's you, me 'n' Peewee get the fuckin' job done." The cables sang as the heavy-duty hydraulic winch drew them tight. Pete eased down on the winch lever some more and things on the loader began to creak and groan as they felt the strain. For a good ten seconds the cables vibrated and the loader's drivetrain moaned like a dying animal without anything else happening, then suddenly the truck jerked and tossed Pete off the winch controls. He landed on his ass in the dust and rubble, cursing and coughing.

"God damnit! God damn son of a bitch." He rolled himself upright, reaching for his favourite ballcap that had been thrown off. "Ohh, you piece a' shit you slid on the outriggers." He stared in dismay at the tracks dug into the weathered concrete from the steel outrigger pads. The outriggers themselves still looked straight and true, not bent or pushed-in any. "Thank fuck, Peewee'd have my ass if I damaged the truck like that." Now that the immediate relief was over, annoyance set in. Normally, the weight of the wrecker concentrated on the two posts would be enough to hold it firm; evidently this job was going to require extra anchorage. Pete crawled up into the cab and shut off the engine, dejected. A half-day project was turning into a week's worth of work all by himself, and if he asked around for help, someone would come strip it down to the axles overnight. Bastards.

Pete caught a glimpse of movement off in the west. Dust was swirling around some small vehicle barreling along the cracked blacktop. As it drew closer it materialized into a Packhorse painted in dark grey with a figure's head and shoulders sticking up through the sunroof. It began to decelerate as it approached the construction site and Pete reached over almost instinctively and opened the glovebox. Inside, wrapped in an oily rag, was a Boltok pistol and a small box of ammunition. He hesitated a moment, hand poised in midair over the weapon. This wasn't a tool for doing useful, constructive work; it was an ugly brutish thing that had only ever caused misery each time he pulled it out. His hand finally closed around the leathery grip as he heard gravel crunching under tires; the pistol quickly disappeared into the back of his waistband and he pulled his shirt down over the hilt. He drummed his fingers against the steering wheel as he looked over at the Packhorse now blocking the exit.

It wasn't raiders after all; it was even worse. "Hoo boy, the fuckin COG just showed up," he muttered. The too-familiar gear emblem was neatly stenciled on the doors, although some enterprising jarhead had crudely sprayed a red skull over the circle in the centre. Extra armor plate was welded onto the doors, quarter panels and hood and an empty circle slide was all that remained of the gun turret. What business they had here, Pete didn't know or care to know, but he suspected it was related to the helicopter that had flown over the town and circled it last week. He shoved open the cab door and climbed down. No amount of armed knuckle-draggers was going to hold him back from his job.

By this point, both occupants of the Packhorse had gotten out and he could give them a once-over appraisal. They were both overfed to the point of being an insult to everyone else on Sera, and underneath the plate armor and automatic weapons, neither looked entirely pleasant, either. "Holy spirits," Pete muttered to himself, "look at this low-brow with his fuckin' bullet necklace an' matching skull tattoo. Nice spiked helmet you hired ape." The other man was a bit more officious looking, with a maroon beret on his bald head and a bunch of coloured squares fastened to his armors chestplate. "Son of a bitch got his goddamned colour-coordinated brooches on." They were both stalking forward with a purposeful sneer on their faces (well, the officer had one) and Pete figured out that they wanted to talk to him about something, and he probably wouldn't like what they had to say.

The officer paced back and forth a bit, looking over the truck in front of him. Pete's presence barely seemed to register on his face. The helmeted soldier didn't take his ice-blue sights off Pete, tapping his trigger finger against the shotgun in his hands as though eager to do… something. The officer spoke without looking at either of them, eyes fixed on the truck's bed crane. "S'cuse me sir, is this your vehicle?"

"Joint ownership between me an' Peewee. Who's askin'?"

"Peewee," the officer snickered. "We're with the COG Redevelopment and Transition Section, doing a preliminary overview of this division. Tell me, where do you get fuel for this vehicle?"

_A-ha_, Pete thought. _That's what they're after_. "It comes outta a big round tank. How about I get back to work now?"

"I take it that filling tank is someone else's doing." The officer was frowning at him now, starting to be annoyed by Pete's terseness. "A vehicle like this is a big asset for any community, but also a big cost to the owners. One of the things the COG is doing for 'redevelopers' like yourself is fuel vouchers, in exchange for service rende-"

"I pay my own bills by working," Pete replied, slamming the cab door shut. "Didn't get no COG help for the past sixteen years, don't need none today. Go find yourselves someone else to bother, I got shit to do."

"We'll be going _soon enough_, sir." There was an underlying threat in the officer's voice. "There are plenty of people in Prescott Junction who want and need our help."

"Prescott Junction doesn't exist no more. It's Baldhead River now."

"It's Prescott Junction," the officer stated icily.

Pete's temper was beginning to bubble up inside him. He'd expected the COG to make a move like this; after all, they'd been re-developing all the settlements clustered around Ephyra and what remained of the Jacinto Plateau. Remoteness had spared the Mordan Flats division for this long, but it couldn't stall them forever. Sooner or later, people were going to have to take a stand unless they wanted to be under the thumb of the COG again.

Sooner or later.

"It's called Baldhead River," Pete hissed, "because of all the fuckin' skulls still left in the river from when you assholes burned Harburg to the ground with your god-fuckin' damned space laser. You couldn't just drop it in from above, oh no, you had to sweep it in from the side and flash fry half the people in the flats. And those were the lucky ones, cause the rest of the poor bastards staggered into the river before they died, tryin' to cool down. You wanna complain about losing Prescott Junction? Blame your fuckin' selves."

"We were fighting a war for you, asshole," the helmeted soldier interjected, shoving Pete with the barrel of his shotgun. "Now we have to come save you from the shit-flinging apes you've become. Look at you, fucking Stranded trash in your greasy pants and shitkicker cap. What a fucking waste of our time. Should've used the Hammer again on this place years ago.'

Pete fixed him with a steely glare, hand creeping up and backwards from his waist. "Sergeant… call off your dog before I put it down."

"I don't think so," The officer's voice was calm, measured and smug. "The COG has need of your machine, with or without you. By the powers of the Seran Redevelopment Act, I'm commandeering this vehicle and all its contents. Harrison, tie this monkey up and leave him in the shadows." He paused for a moment, considering, then adding, "Just don't damage the truck."

"I don't fucking think so," Pete shot back. "PEEWEE!"

Unseen during all this time on his ruined column perch, the big mountain cat sprung into action. He leaped twelve feet onto the soldier with the helmet, two hundred pounds of claws and teeth and overprotective fury. The soldier screamed, his gun going off into the ground and for a split second neither Pete nor the officer moved, ears ringing from the blast. Then the officer drew his snub pistol and Pete launched himself headfirst at the man's stomach. It felt like a brick wall and made his neck pop, but it had the desired effect of bringing them both to the ground. The officer managed to avoid cracking his skull open on the concrete slabs and swung the pistol across Pete's face, the front sight opening up a gash under his nose and across his cheek. He got three good smacks in before Pete recovered enough to punch wildly into the soldier's face, cracking two fingers in exchange for his fist then slamming into the man's windpipe. The officer dropped the gun and reached up with one hand and Pete grabbed his skull in both meaty palms and slammed it against the ground. Once, twice, and on the third time the man's eyes rolled back in their sockets and he groaned. Pete rolled off him and staggered up on one knee, seeing double.

The grunt, meanwhile, had managed to kick the big cat off himself, his armor taking the worst of the scratches. Bleeding, he launched himself onto his feet and grabbed up his shotgun, cocking it and aiming it at Peewee, crouching and gasping by the back bumper of the truck. Just as his finger pushed through the trigger guard, a shot tore through his waist. He half-turned in shock, and Pete steadied the Boltok with both hands and shot again, the bullet ricocheting off the soldier's backplate. Just as the shotgun barrel swung in a few feet from his face, Peewee pounced again, teeth finding the soldier's unprotected neck. The man fell facedown, screams of rage becoming bloody gurgling sounds. The shotgun dropped harmlessly to the ground.

Pete staggered up onto both feet, woozy from the headbutt and beating and with blood dripping off his face in great rivulets. He sighed and looked over at the human rapidly turning into a ragdoll in the jaws of his companion. After a few more seconds to make sure the man was done, he called Peewee off. The cat licked his bloody jaws and looked curiously up at his master. From his right, the officer groaned again, trying to rise up into a sitting position, cursing furiously.

"Gonna pay for that. Gonna get, uuugh, get the airforce in here. All your friends… gonna burn-" A tattered workboot pressed his chest back down to the ground. Pete leaned back and squinted, trying to sight a straight line down the barrel of the Boltok to the man's face.

"Welcome to Baldhead," he wheezed, as he slowly squeezed the trigger. 

* * *

><p><strong>By the way, oilburner = diesel engine, which is named after Rudolf Diesel who is a real man. Since Sera is a sort of 'alternate universe' i see no reason why they'd call them 'diesel' engines there. <strong>


	6. Chapter 6 A Visit from The Hoff

Baird blinked at the face staring back at him. _This mirror must be broken… I don't look that bad. I can't. Not even after a fourteen hour shift._ To be fair, most of the other people in the plant were looking a little haggard these days. The warming summer temperatures were placing a greater strain on New Jacinto's beleaguered power stations as more and more fans and iceboxes were being turned on. Baird had no idea where one could even get a fan – he had enough trouble finding a toaster that didn't catch fire – but they were out there in surprising numbers. Sighing, he wrapped the damp towel around his neck and rubbed the last of the weariness from his face. He was due for four days off now – four days of not having to worry about vibrations, blowbacks, leaky pipes or mysterious noises that always seemed to be 'nobody's fault'. Plus, his replacement was a crusty old Navy sub captain whose knowledge of turbomachinery made his own look like preschool class. He tugged off his workboots and dumped them in his locker unceremoniously, smiling. The odds of being called back to handle a problem were pretty slim. He could pick up a case of homebrew on the way home, sit down on the couch, and close his eyes for twenty-four hours straight.

Fate had other plans.

A sleek black car was parked across the plant's gates, blocking his escape; a familiar figure in military dress uniform leaning against the hood. Baird groaned and slumped his shoulders as General Victor Hoffman walked forward, hand extended. His grip was every bit as commanding and crushing as Baird remembered. "Right, sir, I know I said things would be ready two days ago but I've been pretty busy and-"

"No need to 'sir' me any more, Damon. " Hoffman squinted, looking him up and down and Baird couldn't quite tell if it was sunlight in the man's eyes or if he was under inspection. "I was in Omagn on business and I thought to myself, 'why not swing by in person and rattle the saber?' Figured you could use a fire lit under your ass these days but it looks like someone beat me to it. Grab a bite?"

"Huh," Baird stammered. "Oh uh, yeah, I guess… Sam probably hasn't started cooking anything yet. There's nothing fancy here, though."

"There's always been someone in Ephyra who knows how to put together a cheesesteak," Hoffman replied, motioning to get in the car. "I doubt that's changed."

Hoffman's sense of style had changed, Baird thought. He'd never been able to picture the general in anything besides a Packhorse or a 'Dill, and here he was driving what would've been a high-end luxury sedan when it was first made. Time and use had brought it down to the level of an old family car by now. Hoffman's battle fatigues had been replaced by dress pants and a cotton jacket with shoulder blazes and a gold-trimmed nametag. It made him look smaller and older, somehow. As Baird closed the passenger door and buckled up he couldn't help but steal a few glances at the general, noting with worry the age lines that had suddenly sprouted across his face. Strange, that mortality would loom larger now that the war was over.

They pulled away from the plant and headed towards 'downtown' Ephyra in the day's end traffic. 'Rush hour' was definitely not applicable; even with twice the vehicles on the road compared to the afternoon, Hoffman had no trouble whizzing through the network of navigable streets. Very few personal cars passed them by; heavy trucks and improvised mass transit vehicles were the dominant force on the roads these days, with everyone else massing on bicycles on the shoulders or joining the throngs of people hoofing it to and fro on the sidewalks. Baird leaned back against cracked seat leather and smiled; a nice break this, getting to cruise along in something other than an overcrowded, rickety transit bus.

"Ephyra's coming along nicely," Hoffman observed, doing some rubbernecking.

"It is and it isn't. I mean, overall it's nice but there are a few spots they haven't cleaned up yet." Damon leaned his arm against the window ledge and propped his face up with one hand. "The northeastern part is still bombed out and there's a big tent city in the razed lots between Arlington and Tenth. Not that that'll be there much longer; seems like they open a block of refurb' apartments every week."

"Chalk up another victory for the labour organization schemes, I s'spose."

Baird laughed cynically. "Oh si-, err, Hoffman, it's not the labour that's organized in this town."

"You suggesting things aren't all _above grade _here, Damon?" A definite smirk had crept onto Hoffman's rugged features.

"I'm saying that someone's got control over the _horsepower_. See, these guys right here"- Baird pointed at a group of men walking out of a skeletonized building with hard hats and jackets as they drove past- "there's plenty of them around. What you can't find is heavy equipment, and that always seems to show up at certain sites first. They've had the ground prepared for some low-rent shoeboxes out by where we live for two years - can't rent a digger to start on it. Then there's this guy, Scorloni, big developer asshole, and he's put up four goddamned condo units in the last year alone. Four! You can't tell me that's a coincidence. Which is why I understand how important this data is, and I'll get it to you as-"

Hoffman held up one hand. "That's serious talk, Damon. No serious talk on an empty stomach." The tension in his face vanished when his hand lowered. "How's the lady doing these days?"

"She's still Sam."

"Popped the question to her yet?" There was that damnable smirk again. Hoffman must've become sadistic in his semi-retirement.

"Well gee, I'd love to but the Fortification Act states-"

"Gone as of two weeks ago," Hoffman shot back. "What's takin' you so long? Go on 'n' make an honest woman out of her."

"Bernie put you up to this, didn't she? She actually wants an answer to all of this?"

"Nah, I'm just buggin' ya. She said if you wouldn't tell me, she'll just sneak into your house one morning and find out herself."

"God," Baird groaned, "even in a world with a shattered transport grid and next-to-no fuel that woman still finds a way to get under my skin from two hundred miles away." He banged his head against the window glass, trying to pound out his ire.

"You think that's bad?" Hoffman replied. "Try bein' married to her."

* * *

><p>"Now that is exactly what I've been lookin' for."<p>

Baird stuffed another bite of sandwich into his mouth, melted cheese dripping over his chin. "This is what I was fighting for all those years. Fuck hearth and home." He swallowed the barely-chewed mouthful and looked at his plate wistfully. "I give it another seven years before they fuck it up with preservatives and crap again."

Without his jacket and cap, Hoffman drew no attention in the crowded diner. Baird kept glancing over his shoulder, expecting someone to recognize the new C-in-C of the COG army, but the other patrons were far to engrossed in their meals and conversations. Not that he was particularly fearful for his life; both of them had more or less kept their wartime physiques and he had a folding knife neatly clipped inside his pants pocket. Baird was more concerned with avoiding the embarrassment of having Hoffman pull rank on some cop or worse, Sam finding out he'd been involved in a 'scuffle'.

Hoffman noticed his discomfort. "You feelin' okay Damon? Hope that sandwich isn't getting to you."

"So far nobody in here has recognized who we are," he replied. "I'd just like to keep it that way."

"Most of the cities are fairly COG-friendly. Ephyra's received a lot of demobbed soldiers lately and plenty of funds. Reminds me, though, of why I came here. You're worried about who you can trust on the streets here… and I'm worried 'bout who's got my back in the halls of power." Hoffman finished off his sandwich and gave Baird one of his 'looks'.

"Yeah, I know I know." Baird scratched at the back of his head. "Honestly, I have been working on that, but the personal files are seriously fragmented. I'm talking eight or nine goddamn pieces scattered all through the directories. The program I wrote to descramble the other files can't put these togther so I have to sort them by hand and… eehh, I've managed to get six or seven done so far."

"That's a start," Hoffman offered. "Any names jump out at you offhand? People who were working closely with the UIR during the war?"

Baird waved his hands. "I didn't look at 'em. I don't really want to know who's UIR or who's corporate or anything like that. I'm not a Gear anymore; I left all this political shit behind me when I left the military."

"Fair 'nuff. Just gimme what you got later and I'll work with that for now." Hoffman poked at a rather emaciated looking potato strip experimentally. "Found anything else interesting in the files?

"Actually, yeah, there was something that came up a couple of times and I'd like to ask you about it."

"I'm listening."

"What do you know about Feria?"

Hoffman's expression turned quizzical. "Country northwest of Tyrus, lots of mountains and passes. Really a 'nowhere' place as far as I can remember. What did that come up in relation to?"

"Just a couple files relating to some 'Project Searchlight' operations that went down there. Looks like it was around the same time as Hollow Storm, right when they couldn't spare a man to wipe toilet seats, so I thought that made it interesting."

"You have any idea what this project was about?"

"Not a clue," Baird lied. "You wouldn't be able to find someone alive today who could tell me about that, could you?"

Sighing, Hoffman replied, "You had me worried for a second there. Feria had a lot of COG troops stationed there during the Pendulum Wars; helped boost the power of their own military. When the Locust attacked, the troops were withdrawn to Tyrus and Coracin, 'cause Feria sits on an old tectonic divide and the Hollow wasn't connected to it. Locust mounted a goddamn aboveground invasion and pushed the Ferians into the sea 'bout four years later. They think we knew about that invasion coming and well… there's a little bit of truth to that rumour."

"Oh terrific. I'm sure our Ferian contacts will be _overjoyed_ to help me, a former COG soldier. Real great work, Prescott."

"I'll see what I can do about that," Hoffman laughed. "What is it you want to know?"

"Oh, just stuff about the mountains where this Searchlight team supposedly went, if anybody knows anything about what they did, maybe any unusual happenings today that could be connected-"

"Today? Why do I get the feeling you're up to something, Damon?"

"What, a guy can't have hobbies? You're the one bypassing your own security detail to find out who's on the take." Baird folded his arms and hoped the redirect would work. Hoffman's only response was to take out his wallet and shove a few worn bills under an empty glass. "Alrighty then. Bill's settled, come on an' I'll give you a ride back home."

"And then… head on back to your hotel? Or wherever they've put you up?"

"Oh no. I'm gonna come in for coffee and find out if 'Granny's clever boy' has been treating his ladyfriend all right."

Baird was already wishing he was back at work.

* * *

><p><strong>I wanna do something with Cole soon. I don't think writers give him enough love.<strong>


	7. Chapter 7 Attempted Robbery

Leon leaned back against the runabout's fender, ruffling his shaggy hair so the breeze could get down to his scalp. The predawn air was cool and clammy as it had been for the entire summer so far; it moistened the metal surfaces of the vehicle, made his clothing uncomfortable and left a heavy stillness in the air. Apart from the rustling trees, the only sounds came from a hushed conversation down in the ditch; the guys they'd stuck him with this time were as thick as two short planks and half as useful, spending most of the time gossiping like a bunch of broads. The more he tried to tune them out, the more annoyed Leon became. He had to give them something to do before he strangled them and staked them out on the roadside.

"Hey, ladies." The three dark figures hunched over by the wire fence all turned to look at him. "How about someone make themselves useful and go up the road to check for vehicles."

"_Maannn_, nobody's gonna come tonight, same as the last three," one of them whined.

"We ain't even got no radios," another added. "How we supposta signal back to you?

Leon pulled the wheat stalk from the corner of his mouth. "Aww, baby needs to call mommy? If we had radios the COG would be able to scan them, dumbfuck. You there, shorty. You go up by the thicket of oaks there and tell me if you see any headlights." He squinted into the darkness, hoping to see the flicker of halogen bulbs off in the distance. This was supposed to be the main road between Scyllia and Harnstadt, with lots of good stuff moving along it in the dead of night. They might as well have camped out in someone's driveway for all the luck they were having.

The short man got up and marched off down the road, sulking with his hands in his pockets. Shaking his head, Leon wondered what in the hell Byrd was thinking, vetting this latest bunch of guys. Stacking boxes at a hideout, maybe, but an actual job? At least they're expendable, he thought. If the rumours were true, the COG overlords were putting decoy shipments out on the roads, filled with soldiers. That was a big 'if' in his estimation. The COG was short on just about everything in Feria, except for snitches in their ranks.

If they upped the ante, that would just make the game more fun.

A cry from the short man jolted him out of his musing. Two bright lights were bobbing along the road about a quarter mile distant. "Show's on," Leon hissed at the men hiding in the ditch as he reached into the runabout and grabbed the red signal light, flipping it on. He stepped out into the roadway and, when the vehicle came closer, started waving the light back and forth in his hand, hoping the driver wasn't asleep at the wheel.

It was a truck- a big covered-bed Roadman- and the driver did see him, for the truck started to slow down and pull over. His headlight beams illuminated the runabout, pulled half into the ditch with its hood up, and a very grateful looking man with a signal light. Leon couldn't make out the driver through the headlight glare, but he could tell the man was alone in the cab. When he hopped out of the truck. Leon ran over, bubbling with false exhuberance and praying the idiots in the ditch wouldn't blow it.

"Oh thank the Sovereigns, someone's finally here! I need help; I've been marooned here for hours because this fuck- sorry, this darn piece of trash car gave up the ghost. There must be a loose wire or something, there's plenty of fuel-"

The young trucker looked him up and down, and it was clear that he wasn't nearly as naïve as his youth suggested. "Car trouble huh? Why didn't you go to that farmhouse over there?"

Leon turned to look, kicking himself for not having an excuse for it offhand. There was a farmhouse off in one of the distant fields with a thin wisp of smoke curling up from the chimney. "Oh, I did try there, but they don't have a car or a phone, and well, they seemed kinda… odd, you know. Real 'country' folk, if you catch my drift."

"I was born and raised in the country."

"Yes, well, but obviously you aren't like them." He squirmed a bit at his gaffe. "Look, it's my own fault, I know, but I got this teletype and I just have to be in Harnstadt by morning, so I grabbed the first car the COG could lend me and took off. I was supposed to be there by now."

"Sorry," the man replied. "I'm not allowed to pick up passengers. Safety policy."

"Oh no, no I don't want a ride. All my stuff is in the car. I just need a jumpstart to get it going again. I got cables but the battery's dead."

"I thought you said there was a loose wire." In the sharp light from the headlights, Leon could see a frown creeping across the man's face. This bastard just had to nitipick everything. Thankfully, he was pretty handy around cars – at least when it came to bluffing.

"Yeah, loose wire on the alternator junction. The battery's probably been draining for days, and the ignition is kind of spotty. I can fix the wire good enough to get me to town but I got no juice to start it."

The trucker looked him up and down again, and then the car, and the frown came off his face. "Alright," he offered. "I'll give you a jump, and if that won't work, I'll find a service centre as soon as I get into Harnstadt and tell them about you. Probably only one garage in the whole town, anyways." He let himself be led over to the car where he began poking at the electrical box under the hood while Leon pretended to grab jumper cables from the trunk. He pulled out a black canvas bag and tiptoed behind the man, banging his boot twice against the steel body of the car.

It was over in a second.

Just as the two idiots from the ditch stumbled into view, guns at the ready, Leon threw the sack over the driver's head and pulled the drawstring tight. The man put up a hellacious struggle, forcing Leon to pistol whip him and direct the burlier of his two accomplices to knock him down and hold him. He placed his snub pistol next to the hooded man's ear and cocked it deliberately. The driver calmed down after that. The other man was already into the truck, starting it up and rolling it ahead of the car for an easy getaway. The watchman came back from up the road, eyes alight with mischief at the scene before him. They bound the driver's hands and feet with cord and sat him down by the truck's rear wheels. Leon bent in close to speak into the frightened man's ear.

"Alright son, I know this is rapidly becoming your least favourite day of the week, so I'm going to make this short and sweet. This is how it's gonna go. We're gonna open up the back of your truck, take what we want, and then piss off."

"Yeah, and if you cause problems we'll waste ya," the burly moron quipped. Leon fixed him with the coldest stare he could muster, but didn't dare start to argue with an underling in front of 'the business'.

"Before I open this truck up," he continued, "you need to tell me if anything's gonna jump out at me. Some COG assholes, your dog, your girlfriend, your parents… if something jumps out at me I will shoot it dead, understand? Best to let me know beforehand."

The hooded man nodded. "There's no-one in there. Just farm supplies and parcels," he replied shakily, voice partly muffled by the black canvas.

He was telling the truth – nothing stirred when they opened up the canvas flaps at the rear- and the bed was absolutely filled with treasures. Leon stood outside as the watchman and burly moron went in and started listing off things they found, trying to decide what was worth stealing and what to leave behind. They didn't seem to have much of a clue.

"Okay, uhh, we got ten sacks of fertilizer-"

"Too heavy, leave it."

"I got a box of 'oil injectors' here. Inject it into what?"

"Converts imulsion engines to fuel oil, dipshit. Auto parts are good, take all the auto parts."

"Eww, pickled fish."

"Worthless. Take a jar if you're hungry."

"There's a crate of ammo."

"Take it."

"Parcels – what the hell is Granny Peoria ordering that's so huge?"

"Private property, don't mess with it."

"Holy shit, forty boxes of electric lightbulbs."

"Priceless, take all of them."

"Vacuum food preservers. How the fuck does a vacuum preserve food?"

"Idiot. Take 'em lots of people want that kind of thing."

"Whoa, I got a whole case of desktro- dextra- dexoli- uhh, looks like drugs."

"Leave it."

"Could be used to cook up some good shit, boss."

Leon lifted up the flap and stuck his head in. "Leave it," he hissed. "You wanna be the guys who take medicine from someone's sick grandpa?" The henchmen exchanged dubious looks but set the crate of pills back down. Theft of medications, fuel or COG weapons were all hanging offenses in a world where every two –bit lieutenant was judge, jury and executioner. The less of that stuff they took, the less inclined the COG would be to hunt them down.

"Hey, boss! Boss man, we got company!"

Leon whirled around to see three figures coming out of the oak thicket towards them. They were treading along carefully, purposefully, and for a moment he wasn't sure if they were interested in the scene on the shoulder of the road, but they were definitely not stopping their advance. He jammed his gun back inside his jacket and nearly slapped the man leaning against the runabout. "Grab the driver and hide him under the truck! If _and only if_he yells, shoot him. You two in the back, close up these flaps and shut your mouths! I'm going to see who the fuck these assholes are and baffle 'em with some bullshit. We're part of a delivery convoy or something." He put on his best fake smile and approached the people, who seemed very interested in the newly sprouted wheat seedlings.

"Hello there!"

All three figures gave him a cursory inspection and turned away from him. Leon wondered why they were so completely wrapped in clothing, belts and fabric, even to the point of wearing hoods and facewraps. One of them had a metal welder's mask on; evidently he was the leader, pointing out things of interst on the young plants. They weren't COG, at least, but they defiantly had the build of former Gears. He wondered if they were badly scarred; the COG certainly had no qualms about throwing its men to the wolves and turning their backs on the shattered husks that came back.

"Excuse me, what are you fellas up to?"

They turned to look at him again, this time permanently. The leader stood as he approached, hooking a thumb in his belt. Leon stepped right up to him. He was a few inches taller and thick as hell. Definitely ex-Gear, unless a bunch of wandering bodybuilders had come on holiday. "Sorry fellas, but this is a sensitive convoy stopped up on the road there and I'm going to have to ask you to vamoose outta here. Head back on up the road until we're gone. Won't be more than a minute."

The only response was for the figures hand to clench into a fist hard enough that Leon heard knuckles pop. He reached inside his jacket and closed his fingers around the pistol's grip.

"Listen, buster, I'm going to say this slowly now since you're obviously educationally-challenged. You need to go away now. Bye-bye." Leon reached up with his free hand and poked the burly man in his chest.

"That means back… the… fuck… u-"

* * *

><p>Stepping out of the runabout immediately threw Lieutenant Mills' head into disarray and he reached out for the roll bar to steady himself. "What exactly was so important about this that I had to come, again?" he griped, shielding his eyes from the harsh flare of the rising sun. He stepped into the shadow of the big truck that was their first crime scene of the day.<p>

"It's the Byrd gang!" the constable with him replied, "Some of 'em, anyways. We finally got the bastards." Fumbling around in the pockets of his ballistic vest, he brought out a notepad, eager like a cadet. Most of the constable trainees Mills was in charge of were bundles of nerves and excitement every time they got to leave the classroom. Two of his classmates were already ambling around the scene of the crime, no doubt pawing everything and eradicating what little evidence remained. The veteran lieutenant recognized one of the two officers – former COG soldier like himself – and instructed his driver to busy himself interviewing the witness to shoo him away.

"Jenkens! What's going on here?"

Turning around, Constable Jenkens gave his characteristic shrug. He'd been gazing around the scene with his hands on his hips, evidently asking himself that same question. "Oh, Lieutenant Mills, sir!" He almost saluted before remembering they weren't in the army anymore. "I'm…I'm not quite sure myself, sir. Four stiffs and one walking, and it looks like all of the _victims_were members of the Byrd gang. Hijacking gone wrong would be my guess."

"I heard that tone, Jenkens. _Victims_. Dead gangsters get investigated, just like everybody else." Mills lit up a cigarette, hoping to stave off the headache building behind his temples.

"Sorry sir. Can't get too sobby about four of these assholes dying, after all the officers they've shot."

"Duly noted." Mills nodded towards the man leaning against the truck's front fender. "Who's the survivor?"

"Truck driver. He's all shook up, bein' kinda evasive," Jenkens replied. "He's not the star of this show, though… you're gonna wanna see this."

"This" turned out to be a blanket-draped body sprawled in the field, just next to the shoulder. Mills whistled when the constable pulled back the blanket enough for him to get a look at the victim's face. "Well I'll be damned, that's Leon Vedder. Now isn't this a pretty picture?" he smirked. It took him a second to realize that the odd appearance of the body was because the crook's torso was facing down… while his head was facing up. The lieutenant grimaced and stuck his tongue out. "I'm going to guess that cause-of-death has something to do with his head being on the wrong way.

"Yeah, Byrd's right-hand man himself. Someone fucked him up good," Jenkens grinned, mimicking a neck-snapping with his hands.

"What about the others? You think maybe a fight broke out/"

Both men stood up and the constable pointed out three other white blankets laid over lumpy forms nearby. "Well, the two guys in the ditch were dumped there, and there's blood and a few spent casings up by the truck. I figure that ol' Leon here ran into the opposition first and got imself all 'turned around', then those two guys tried to be heroes and got stabbed or something. Couple of really deep piercing wounds on both of them and one had his throat slit. The last guy tried to run" – Jenkens waved his hand towards the furthest white blanket, about two-dozen feet in front of the truck – "and got hit in the back of the head with an arrow of some kind. Found the broken shaft sticking out of his bald-ass head." He folded his arms across his chest, satisfied with the story he'd woven together.

Mills pondered the situation for a moment. It sounded like someone had interrupted an all-too-common highway robbery and decided on some vigilatne justice, and gotten away with it. That was odd, considering the reputation of the Byrd gang both for being minor folk heroes standing up to the COG, and for ruthlessly cutting up anyone that crossed them. "Jenkens, was anything missing from the truck?"

"According to the driver, probably a few things. Odd, though. I think he said there was some fertilizer and food missing, but none of the expensive stuff was touched. Someone definitely went through all the boxes and messed around with things. They didn't take the truck or the decoy car. Plus, I counted about a half-dozen Hammerburst casings but no weapons on any of the guys, and I don't think they robbed the truck using harsh language."

The whole scenario was staring to sound unsettling to the lieutenant. Feria's budding police force was lightly armed and staffed entirely by local farmboys and a smattering of demobbed soldiers for discipline. Pre-war target pistols were in short supply and the most advanced forensic tool left was the magnifying glass. The Byrd gang had been plenty to handle, and now there was a new crew moving in, or maybe some insane ex-commando turned vigilante carving up the countryside. He fished another smoke out of his ballistic vest pocket. "I want to talk to the driver," he said, "and god help him if he thinks he's going to be evasive with me."

* * *

><p>"I told you, I was hooded! What the fuck do you want me to say, 'gee, I got a good view of the inside of a burlap sack?"<p>

The young man fidgeted, balancing on the exposed front tire of the police runabout. He kept scratching his arm and staring at the dirt, and Mills couldn't tell if it was guilt or fear that was throwing up a wall between them. "Listen son," he advised gently, "I understand that this is all very difficult for you now, but you have to see how this looks. By your own statement, you were tied up on the ground, helpless, and yet somehow you survived. People are going to wonder if you were involved in this-"

"Well I fucking wasn't! I had a gun shoved in my face! One of them said they were going to kill me! You always think that us country folk are in on these jackass schemes but it's our stuff that gets stolen, our asses that get beat. My cousin got jumped by the Byrd gang and they stabbed him and you barely even came to the hospital to-"

Mills cut off the young man's babbling with his best Army Voice. "Your cousin isn't here right now. This is about you and you alone. Now maybe you couldn't see, but you could goddamn well hear, so I'll rephrase the question: what did you _hear_, son?"

"Nothing!"

"Absolutely nothing?" Mills asked, annoyed. "No screaming or gunshots or yelling? Not a branch rustling or a bird chirping? You suddenly deaf?"

"I heard the gunshots and the screaming, and then it went silent. Well, actually …" the trucker said hesitantly, "I heard footsteps."

"Excellent. How many footsteps?"

Screwing up his face, the driver thought for a minute. "At least two. Maybe four. Real heavy footsteps too, like a bunch of COGs tramping around. I thought that's what it was, and I called out for help but- well, they ignored me. One of them came real damn close and just stood there for a second, then they all moved off. Assholes never helped me."

"Considering what happened to the four guys with guns, maybe you should consider that a blessing," one of the constables standing to his side observed.

"Yeah, I guess." He managed a sick laugh, then added, "Wait! I just remembered! One of them did say something!"

Mills and the two constables leaned forward intently, pens at the ready. "What did he say?" Their keen attention made the man hesitate, chewing on the inside of his cheek.

"I couldn't really hear it. I just remember this whisper, a real hoarse whisper like the guy'd been drinking paint thinner. He said a bunch of words, and I think one of them was 'humans' or something. Maybe 'new guns?" he added.

Both the constables eagerly began scribbling down this new info and launched into a barrage of declarations and instructions for giving an official statement and the importance of testifying and other bureaucratic things that Mills couldn't care less about. He leaned back, drifting out of the present conversation and back into the war, to a world of flames and shadows, to the harsh, alien voice that cried out in the darkened factory, sibilant and malevolent, driving the invaders onwards to crush-

He started suddenly and all eyes turned to him. That was a long time ago in a different world. He was starting to get the jitters, letting the past spook him like this. Mills snapped his notebook shut and placed it back into the pouch on his belt, cracking his knuckles.

"Something wrong, Lieutenant?" It was his driver, looking at him with concern.

"Just thinking of ghosts. Lets get wrapped up here and go back to the station, constables. Paperwork awaits."

* * *

><p><strong>'Runabout' is a Seran term for a small, open-cab 4x4 vehicle, slightly smaller than a pickup truck. <strong>


	8. Chapter 8  Twu Wub

Sam padded back to bed as gracefully as she could, trying to hide the punch-drunk love stagger in her stride. As soon as her knees touched the sides of the mattress she collapsed forward, dragging her legs up after her into the pile of sweaty sheets on her side, now was a time to lie perfectly still and steep in the warm, fuzzy feelings flowing through her. She sighed contentedly, rolling her head over and cracking one eye open to look at the source of the fuzzies, lying next to her on his back. Baird's thick arms were behind his head, and the faint orange glow from the oil streetlamps highlighted every muscle and glittered in his eyes. He was staring up at the ceiling so intently Sam wondered if a chunk of plaster was about to break free and land on their heads. It wouldn't be the first time.

"Whatcha thinkin' about, Damon?"

He didn't answer for the longest time, still staring at the phantoms overhead. Sam didn't really need an answer, just some satiated grunt to let her know he was feeling at least as good as she was. The ruins at the end of the world was a strange time to be having performance anxiety, but that didn't stop her. Baird's bottomless well of snark always seemed to run dry afterwards; hopefully that was a good sign.

"Just making plans," he said at last, scratching his nose nonchalantly. He definitely sounded relaxed and happy, a fairly odd tone for Baird.

Sam wiggled closer to him, feeling their bare hips touch as she laid a hand on his chest. "Ooh, what are we planning on building now, mmm?" she cooed. As much as he could be a selfish arse interpersonally, Baird was always generous when it came to sharing his engineering talents, whether it was something for the people of Sera or something just for Sam. Sensing her interest, he tensed up a little and inhaled.

"You seem to have this incredible aptitude for knocking me full of feelings, so I guess the best time to do this is right now." He punctuated the strange statement by lurching upright and grabbing for his discarded boxers. "Come on, I've got something to show you." Sam was still groggy and bypassed the opportunity to make a lewd crack about being 'full' to give him a slack-jawed look.

"What-"

"No speaky, just walky." Damon strode to their shared dresser and whipped out a shirt, throwing it around his shoulders. He looked back to the bed and his lover rolling around in confusion, and tossed a hooded sweatshirt at her. "You might want to put something on, unless you want to walk around the yard like that. Which, you know, is fine by me." Sam groaned and grabbed the hoodie. Baird was up and gone in a heartbeat, effortlessly buttoning up his shirt on the run with his nimble mechanic's hands. Sam pulled the sweatshirt half on and grabbed the first thing that looked like panties in the dim night light, hopping into them by the time she crossed the threshold. She wasn't sure if it was a good thing she had no qualms about stumbling into her undies on the run. She caught up to the blonde on the stairs, trying to pull the hoodie down around her and realizing with mild horror that it had evidently shrunk when she washed it.

"Mind telling me what's so important that I have to run around in my underwear past midnight to see it?" she hissed, poking at his side. He pulled her aside on the second floor landing, holding her forearms gently in his big, rough hands.

"Since I cannot help but take on projects, even when I know they'll kill me in the end," he intoned with fake seriousness, "I have decided to follow through on the advice of certain other, older, wrinklier people about my life. I have decided that I need a better half."

A little jolt went through the Kashkur, as though she'd brushed up against a battery. That her long-term boyfriend wanted to make their relationship more serious wasn't too shocking, that he actually found the emotional capacity to propose it was. She looked into his eyes and saw sincerity there, an earnest expression that yes, Damon Baird really was posing the question to her. She tucked an errant strand of hair behind her ear and stammered, 'Well, uh, I think if it's you we're talking about, you're going to need a better three-quarters at least." The smile at the end took away whatever mild sting her joke had.

"Cute. Coincidentally, three quarters is all I'd get for you on the slave market today. Should've traded you for that bacon when I had the chance."

"I'm glad you didn't." Sam lifted herself up on tiptoes and planted a light kiss on his lips. Her whole body had gone from feeling _nicely_ _fucked_ to _whoa-nelly-I'm-gonna-be-a-bride_; her arms shivered slightly from it. "But I gotta say, Damon, a half-broken lightbulb?" She pointed a finger at the flickering orb above their heads, dangling from where a chandelier once hung. "Not exactly moonlight over the Tyber River, is it?"

"What, this?" Baird snorted. "This is just the project overview, not the actual engineering study. Trust me, there might not be a fancy restaurant or a jewelry store left, but Damon Baird still knows that you gotta have some goods when you propose to a lady." He beckoned her to keep following him down the stairs; she laughed and took his outstretched hand.

"Does the Cole Train know that Damon Baird is now aping his third-person speech gimmick?"

"The Cole Train and Damon Baird are working out a licensing deal."

They snuck out the back door into the cool midsummer air of what was once a nice big patio for the pre-war residents. Now, weeds shoved up in great rude clusters through ankle-deep cracks in the concrete, and a smattering of corrugated shanties held private storage, little greenhouses and construction materials for the never-ending renovations. Baird led her to the largest one, his personal home workshop, and drew aside the doorway curtains. Inside it was about the size of a one-car garage; he pulled on a chain and a little lightbulb sputtered to life, casting a cheery yellow glow over his workbench, jack stands, tools, and boxes. A large object leaned up against the workbench, covered in a brown tarpaulin. It was just under waist high and about six feet long, but Sam couldn't make out what sort of thing would be so lumpy and asymmetrical. Baird slowly got down on one knee, grumbling about sharp grit and knee joints, and grabbed a fistful of tarpaulin.

"Samantha Byrne, against my better judgment" – he yanked the tarp aside – "will you be my wife?"

Sam clapped a hand over her mouth. It was a bike! Not a homemade one either, a real pre-war motorcycle, albeit completely disassembled. She knelt down carefully beside it, placing a hand reverently on one tire. It appeared complete, too, with a minimum of rust on the parts. "Where on Sera did you get this, Baird?" she gasped, jiggling with girlish glee.

"Uhh, hello? Marriage proposal? Profession of undying love?"

"Oooh, it's a Swifthorse too!" Sam carefully turned the front fender over in her hands, tracing fingertips over the tarnished horse emblem on the front. Bikes had gotten into her blood. Her last pleasant memories of her father involved kneeling on the driveway beside him as he took apart the old bike he owned for the millionth time, patiently explaining the workings to a bewildered, fascinated young child. She missed her rat bike, missed the freedom that having a vehicle entailed. This was better than any wedding ring. "Yes," she murmured, sifting through the parts with sparkling eyes.

"Uh, what?"

"YES, you bloody arse, I will marry you!" Sam wrapped one arm around Damon's neck and drew him in tightly, snuggling her head against his neck. One of his hands softly cradled the back of her head as she squeezed him like a constrictor snake. When she pulled back, he was smiling as much as she was. "I'd rather have a boxful of memories than some useless shiny ring any day."

"Junk? Hey, that didn't come free." Baird stuck out his lip in a perfect fake-pout. "I had to do _jobs_ for _people_ to get my hands on this. Actual favours and nice things. It's in perfect running condition, believe me. I was the one who stripped it down."

Sam looked at him curiously. "Run? How? I don't think even Marcus Fenix could bum enough leftover fuel off the government to run this thing." Her gaze turned sad as she looked over the collection of pipes and parts and framework, thinking that it would never be much more than a memento now.

"Fuck imulsion," Baird huffed. " There's more than one way to juice a motor up, believe me." He struggled to his feet again and retrieved a battered cardboard box from his workbench, strange lettering splayed out around a triangle symbol on it. Sam took the offered box and opened it slowly, tilting her head as the four shiny metal… things inside revealed themselves. They looked like some kind of air hose fitting, brassy and dark steel in different places and about the size of her thumb. She jiggled them around experimentally, which made the mechanic cringe and snatch the box back. "Heyhey_heyyyyy_, don't fuck these up. These cost more than the whole bike."

"What are they, exactly?"

"Spring needle valves with built-in pressure reducers so that the methlyized…" Her confused puppy dog eyes evidently had the desired effect on him. "They make it run on vapor fuels. Cow farts, believe it or not. Yours truly has learned that they plan on making a sewage distilling plant to capture biogases for fuel. In the meantime… well, I'll think of something."

Sam grabbed the box back greedily, positive the little valves were reflected in her saucer eyes. "So the bike works, once you put it together, and it will run on the same nasty swamp gas that seems to come off every man on the street? My, my."

Baird snorted. "As if you're any better, with your 'cycles' and your 'I'm not feeling freeeesh, Daaaamon. Nyee-" He shut up when a second pair of lips pressed tightly against his own, the sudden addition of Sam's weight knocking him over on his back. Baird squirmed against the rough floor as she gripped his legs in her thighs and sucked a lungful out of him.

"You are one of the biggest assholes I have ever met." Her breath came in ragged gasps, lips returning to peck at Baird's face. "You are rude, crude, sexist, antagonist and dismissive, and those are your _good_ qualities." Sam countered every attempt to brush her off with another kiss. "And yet, you have just made me the happiest woman on the face of the planet." She really meant it too.

"Whoa, insults and cliches?" Baird finally squirmed free of her grasp and pulled himself into a sitting position, wiping at his face and smirking. "Helluva way for a woman to show some appreciation when a gentleman offers to take her under his wing."

"Under? Let's go for a second round, see just who ends up under whom." Her tone was filled with brazen lust; Baird actually looked over at the shed opening and squirmed a bit.

"What, right here? Uh, you know, those canvas curtains are pretty threadbare… people are at least going to hear us."

"Frankly, Baird," Sam purred, skinning off her sweatshirt, "with the way I feel now, I couldn't care less."

* * *

><p><strong>So, more explicit in the future? Less? Let me know what you guys think. <strong>

**And no, ladies, I have no plans to write some huggy-wuggy wedding scene in the future, with white dresses and runny-nosed ring bearers. I gots _standards_, y'know. :p**


	9. Chapter 9 Shopping Trip

**Alright, I know that this chapter is probably going to raise a lot of questions. Don't worry, this isn't one of THOSE fanfics. I have good, solid, logical reasons for what his happening... or so I think. The explanation will be delivered bit by bit as things go on, but some of you might be able to piece things together a lot sooner. If you really want to ask the hard questions, leave a review or send me a PM, I don't bite.**

* * *

><p>He had been running for four days and four nights by the time that Outlook came into view, silhouetted against a rising sun. Skeletons of abandoned buildings slowly crumbled back into the bleached grey dirt surrounding them, converted from reality to fading memory long before war scarred the four corners of the earth. Amidst the quiet desolation, the scout slowed his harried pace, allowing himself to catch his breath. Traveling through brush trails by day and side roads by night, rarely stopping to rest, the journey took its toll on his body. Now that the ground was rising up into foothills beneath him, his journey was almost over, and he could afford to slow down and pace himself. Another day to reach home was more than enough.<p>

A light breeze, cool and dry, ruffled the scarves wrapped around his head and flipped the collar of his long coat up. The scout ducked into what was once a modest house, sitting down on a sagging bench and setting his rucksack aside. Loud crackling noises came from each shoulder as he rolled them in turn, stretching the accumulated tension out of them. The cracks were echoed by growls from his stomach. He glanced around, checking for any prying eyes, before he dragged the rucksack in front of his legs and removed his gloves to rifle through it.

When he pulled the heavy leather off his hands, pale flesh pebbled with darker grey gleamed in the dull light.

The scout undid both tie-straps and opened up the canvas bag, shuffling through the contents eagerly. He pulled out one of the strange tins he had found, rectangular and thick with rounded corners and a strange metal key stuck on the side. Setting this aside, he fished around some more to come up with a cylinder of light metal, strange runes embossed into its side and a similar looking key embedded in the top. He grabbed the rectangular box first, turning it over several times until he was sure he had the top facing up. Pulling a crude knife out of his belt, he jabbed a series of perforations all around the lid and carefully pried the jagged chunk of metal away.

Fish. Smaller than what he was used to, headless and tail-less and in a bath of light yellow liquid. They smelled pleasantly pungeant, and he removed his head wrappings to eat, burlap falling away from knobby bare flesh, heavy brows and snarling lips. The drone winced as he took off his goggles and the sunrise flooded into his beady yellow eyes. He tossed the clothing in a pile and lifted one of the fish pieces delicately with clawed fingers. It tasted even better than it looked, and he tipped the rest of the box into his mouth, chewing crudely. Grabbing his knife again to open the can, the drone hesitated. Perhaps it was a good time to put some of his observations to use. Humans, he'd noticed, used the tab on top to open it. Sure enough, it came free without a fuss, allowing him to sniff at the opening tentatively. There was no smell save the metal itself, and a sip revealed it to be plain water, although far more pure and tasteless than what he was used to. The drone pondered why anyone would seal water inside a can when it flowed freely all over the surface, but soon accepted that he was simply not equipped for such philosophical thinking. He tossed the empty canister back into his bag and lifted it onto his knees, hunting around for any other items of interest.

There was a tiny metal box with a crank on one side that produced strange tinkling tunes when turned. There were little packets filled with strange, sweet smelling red goo, bitter clear liquid and spicy-scented yellow paste. There were bits of human clothing, fistfuls of gun cartridges, knives, strange pinching and cutting tools, delicate glass orbs with metal plugs on one and and tiny wires inside. The drone shook one, ever so gently, and heard a faint tingling from within. Somehow, they could be made to glow; he had seen the human dwellings become awash with orange every time the great burning heavens fell beyond the horizon.

Right now, the light was coming in a steeper angle, telling him that he had rested long enough. He pulled one last item from his bag, a thin metal frame with two dark glass lenses set into it, something he'd been wanting to try ever since seeing it in use. The two nubs between the lenses sat awkwardly above his nostrils and the long side-arms fell uselessly down by his jaw. Things designed for humans rarely fit his people well. He grabbed a headdress from the bag, a cloth mesh dome with a brim on one side decorated with the emblem of a growling mountain cat. Fitting. The two side arms of the strange goggles fit into the mesh sides of the hat perfectly. Placing his hands on his hips, the scout looked around, marveling at how the light was dimmed without any slats or mesh in his eyes. He shouldered his pack once again, and started off towards the distant grey peaks, smiling as much as a drone could smile

He would be praised when he returned, and Colony would be amazed when they saw what he had collected.

* * *

><p>"Grampa, it's Hubs," the young man protested, rocking his chair upright on all fours. Nothing he did seemed to make his self-anointed nickname stick. "Everybody calls me Hubs now, 'cause it's cooler."<p>

"Nonsense, Hubert. You have a fine name." His grandfather replaced his reading spectacles with sunshades and pulled on a vest. "I don't expect we'll get many customers while I'm gone, but remember: be courteous, be attentive and smile."

Hubert watched him leave and rocked his chair back against the wall, thumbing through the tattered pre-war comic book. Many? Try none, he thought. It was already three in the afternoon, warm orange rays streaming in through the slatted blinds of the front windows. A handful of people came in daily to buy handmade smokes or candies; if it wasn't for those goods, nobody would come in at all. The half-empty racks of brooms, old plates, useless electrical cords and ratty pre-war books were not exactly hot-ticket items.

Books… that reminded him of something. He flopped his comic down on the counter and stealthily padded over to the bookshelves, as though there were dozens of eyes on him. Picking a thick, dusty engineering tome from the top shelf, he pried it open a crack and retrieved the magazine from inside: just a little something he'd spotted out of the corner of his eye while unpacking a box of scavenged goods. This was something that would definitely sell, considering they hadn't made any of it for over sixteen years. His fingers trembled slightly as he gripped the still-shiny cover of the magazine. SLAMMERS sprawled out in big red letters above a woman wearing a few strips of leather and a saucy smile.

A genuine, bona-fide skin rag, the kind of thing any other fifteen year old would tell the tallest of tales about, right here, in his possession. Sometimes minding the store alone had its perks.

Back behind the counter, he cracked it open to a random spot, too eager to hold back. A curvy blonde lay sprawled all over both pages. "Wow," he enthused quietly, "she looks just like Christine McCuddy, give or take five years." Except prudish, haughty Christine would never do _that_with her legs… would she? This magazine was definitely being spirited away to his room; it was too good to lose. He'd find a way to sneak something else to gramps in return. "Oh my god," he moaned, turning the page. "Look at the size of these bazong-"

The door's bell chiming nearly gave him a heart attack and made his chair topple over backwards. He managed to avoid crinkling the magazine into a ball, not sure of what he'd do with himself if he destroyed what could be the last porno mag on Sera.. He levered himself up onto the counter with the thing still in his grip, squinting at the bulky figure standing in the doorway. The stranger had 'odd' written all over him, mostly from the fact that where most people had skin showing, he had burlap wrappings and goggles. Hub squirmed, recalling some of the stories he'd heard about soldiers so mangled, they patched them up with dead men's faces. 'Slammers' suddenly became the second most interesting thing in the store.

The man walked slowly around, appraising all the items on the shelves in turn. Hub peeked over the pages of the dirty mag, watching him pick up an old desk fan that probably didn't work and turn it over in his gloved hands like it was studded with gemstones. Damn big hands too, he thought, as his own gripped the magazine tighter. "Alright, where was I?" he murmured. "Miss Bloom, right, Miss Bloom…"

A shadow fell over his face. He looked up slowly into the steel mesh lenses of the man's goggles and swallowed nervously, dropping the magazine. A few old illustrated farmer's encyclopedias thumped onto the counter, along with some silverware, a mug and a box of mints. The man looked over the jars of sweets sitting nearby and slowly reached one massive fist inside. Several lemon sticks tumbled onto the pile of goods. Hubert stared, dumbstruck into the goggles as the man reached down onto the counter and grabbed something. He looked down, examining the magazine. _Hubert's magazine_.

White hot embarrassment coursed through his veins. _Oh god what if gramps comes back right now? What if he tells gramps about this? What if he says something really awkward? Oh god, I've gotta say something. I've gotta say-_

"Th-that will be si-six dollars and, uh…"

Wordlessly, the man gathered all the things he'd purchased into his backpack. He reached into his coat and tossed a small pouch on the counter; it jingled loudly. As the man left, Huber slowly upturned the pouch, watching as gold coin after gold coin spilled out on the worn wood. Not alloy or brass plate, but real gold, heavy as hell and soft enough that most were bent and rubbed-down from centuries of wear. They were all shapes and sizes; some almost modern, with recognizable dates stamped into them, some so old he couldn't even tell if they were Ferian. If they added up to anything less than a hundred, he'd be shocked.

"Gramps is going to _flip_ when he sees these," Hubert softly whispered. 

* * *

><p><strong>If I was going to produce a porno magazine, I'd totally call it Slammers. Because I'm hella immature. <strong>


End file.
